


To Here Knows When...

by Deep_waters



Category: Rammstein
Genre: An unhealthy reflection on love, Developing Relationship, Forming Friendships, Hunting & Fishing, Isolation, M/M, Nature, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-06-13 15:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15367821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deep_waters/pseuds/Deep_waters
Summary: A small reflection on love and loss





	1. Communications

_**To** : A.Godfrey@RHPublishing.com[  
](mailto:A.Godfrey@RHPublishing.com)**From:** T.Lindemann@gmail.com[  
](mailto:T.Lindemann@gmail.com)**Subject:** RE: To Here Knows When…  – final chapters and rewrites_  
  
_Alice,_  
  
_I’ve finished writing the final draft of the novel and have attached it to this email.  I hope you like the small adjustments I made and that we’re ready to go to the next step now!_  
  
_Thanks,_  
  
_Till Lindemann._  
  
  
  
_**To:** T.Lindemann@gmail.com[](mailto:T.Lindemann@gmail.com)  
**From:** A.Godfrey@RHPublishing.com  
**Subject:** RE: To Here Knows When…  – final chapters and rewrites_  
  
_Dearest Till,_  
  
_I have just finished reading this draft, and let me tell you, it kept me hooked until the very end.  This Richard character sounds really volatile, and the relationship is so unhealthy but I couldn’t help falling in love with him!  It’s all starting to sound a bit fifty shades but honestly, He’s such a charmer!  He even had a daughter with the protagonist’s ex-wife!  AND THEY STILL FELL IN LOVE??? I just couldn’t believe it!_  
  
_Just a quick, final thought; might it be best to turn the protagonist into a female?  Surely that’d widen the market of this story?  The LGBT book sales just aren’t as lucrative as female focused romance novels in this current climate.  What with the popularity of the Christian Grey books, the Crossfire novels and all those other terrible girly romance novels, it might be more profitable for us to alter this into a hetero book.  It’s a shame, but it’s true.  This is a VERY small change asked for by the board, if you would agree, only from a profit stand point.  They’re happy whatever way you wish to proceed.  You ARE the author of this wonderful story, after all!_  
  
_Let me know!_  
  
_Alice Godfrey,_  
_RH Publishing_

* * *

  
But this isn’t some made-up, lucrative story, best changed for the profits of the publishers I’d handed it to.  This was my life.  This was _my experience._ Could I really change it to the same old love story of a young man and woman finally realising their love for one another?  Of course not!  This was my life and I wanted to finally get this story off my back and out there.  I’d kept my life private for the longest time, keeping myself out of the limelight as much as humanly possible.  But he’d burned so bright, and lived so carefree, soaking up the fame and fortune, drawing in everything in his path, like the proverbial black hole.   
  
It was my turn now; to get my life on these pages and explain the story.  I believe I had a much more accurate idea of our lives together, delicately intertwined and savagely ripped apart.  I needed to tell what happened, _how_ it had happened.  How we end up where we are now.   
  
The accurate history of our love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> So I've been doing some thinking and I felt like I'd written myself into a corner, so I've made some edits and hopefully I'll be able to post more frequently! 
> 
> Enjoy! <3


	2. Only Shadows

Waking that morning was painful.  Uncomfortable light broke through the small mountain ridges in the distance as the sun rose high into the cool morning air.  The shattered knees stood high above the small village, casting a large shadow that retracted inch by inch as the sun soared higher into the sky.  The setting was calm, collected; cool morning dew gathered on the leaves, ready to accept the damp, begging for it to moisten the ground an ounce, to give some sustenance to the roots below, bestow life into their hollow bones.  He thrived here, more than most; lived for the beauty of his surroundings, praising the produce of the land which fed him.  The Autobahn made no disturbance in the atmosphere here, just fifteen miles south of his home.  Germany was known for its dense woodlands, terrifying to those who didn’t understand it’s beauty; a wonderful place of solace to those who had grown in its shadow.   
  
The sun, though 150 million kilometres away, had pinpoint accuracy.  It never ceased to amaze him that even the smallest gap in the curtains could earn him a shot in the eye from the sunlight outside.  Wincing, unwilling, he turned in his bed. The cat had been missing now for fifteen days.  It might well be time to assume that he’s gone off somewhere to die, but there was a part of him that really hoped beyond all hope that the cat was safe and well, and had just found another little family to take care of him.  It was the stunning silence of the house in the early morning that woke him first.  
  
At first, Till slowly pulled himself up, sitting on the edge of his mattress, flexing his toes in the rug by the side of his bed, thanking his mother for it.  Cold feet were the bane of his existence.  Standing, heading towards the bathroom, the cold chill of the morning air hit his skin for the first time after leaving the warm aura of his bed. His skin prickled in the air, hairs rising, cold air wrapping itself carefully around him.  _Fuck these cold mornings_. 

In the summer months, the north shore of the lake near to his house was heavily populated with groups of teenagers, away from their parents, enjoying the sunshine, forming bonds they’d never forget.  He hadn’t experienced those fleeting summers; hadn’t enjoyed the company of young ladies on the north shore, away from the prying eyes of his mother and theirs; hadn’t formed strong bonds with other boys his own age, friendships that would last a lifetime.  He’d spent his childhood in solitude, enjoying his own company, or at least that’s what he told himself.  He’d gone into a sports academy, taking to swimming like a fish in water.  He’d been pushed for the Olympics, a great pride to hold in Eastern Germany, your masculinity secured by the weight you could carry and the sports you partook in.  He’d never really enjoyed it the competitive side of it that much, but the water was a different story; those deep waters and the quiet they brought.   
  
Picking up the bag he’d packed the night before, he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.  4:45 in the morning – the perfect escape time.  His mother still slept in her bed, his father a distant worry.  He quickly, quietly, closed the door to the house and escaped into the early morning air. Free as a bird.  The first days of summer were the best for hiking, it wasn’t too hot yet.  He stopped at the gate and tied his laces, tucking them into his socks.  He continued further up the lane, eating a slice of buttered bread from the bag he’d packed.  He’d spend a couple of weeks alone, his job not a problem (He’d lied, but they’d agreed to let him go).  He’d come to the little island in the middle of the lake every summer since he was a child.  It was the ultimate place of escape, a place where there were no fathers with long reaching belts, no mothers with nagging lists of chores, no coaches harassing you to train.  It had become a place where he could be himself, could relax and exist with no pressure, no expectation and no repercussions.  He’d long since learned to track and hunt, carrying a Bowie knife to keep himself fed on whatever he could catch and kill.  He found the almost caveman like urges to hunt and gather quite carnal, something so base and prehistoric that he felt as he stepped onto the island that he’d become another person altogether, someone from history a long time gone. To him, this was what masculinity should be; providing for oneself, doing it all yourself.          
  
The deeper he continued, the less light penetrated the leaves of the trees.  It was only a small patch of forest here, but it was dense, and it took half the time to cut through in a straight line than it did to walk around it.  It would take him forty-five minutes to cross this small patch of forest to the lake, and then another twenty minutes of rowing to get to the shore of the island.  He’d always marvelled at the types of trees that grew in Germany, how they grew so tall and wide, but survived so close together, with light only tenderly touching the tops of them, leaving the undergrowth to wither and rot.  Maybe that provided the fertiliser the trees needed, he’d never be sure.  But nature was an awe-inspiring thing.  The spruce trees here were in full bloom this year, spreading wide and high.  He stopped a moment to look up into the sky, examining the tops as best he could through the thick foliage.  They were old, most likely older than him.  He kept walking, admiring the beautiful dark-green hue the light took under here, taking in a deep breath of the freshest air in the world (in his opinion).  He emerged from the trees, the lake almost jumping out at him from nowhere.  He was nearly home.  
  
Under a canopy of leaves, hidden from sight was a little rowing boat.  He’d hidden it here, out of the sight of others, something he didn’t want to share.  He’d previously had little boats stolen from him, by eager teens looking for a secluded spot to fuck, but he’d successfully hidden this one, and he would bring it back to the house in the late summer once he’d finished with his excursion to the island, his Island. He threw down his bag into the floor of the little boat and clambered aboard.  He was twenty and he was free.  He could make his own decisions.  Money was no object to him, as he’d live off the land and earn when he was back.  This was his time to be himself.

* * *

 

He rowed out onto the lake with ease, a practiced move he’d done a million times.  Being near water was something necessary for him.  Being stuck on the land, unable to swim felt claustrophobic to him, he felt he might drown in the seas of people in towns and cities over the closing waters where he felt at home.  He sat on the water for a moment and opened his bag, producing papers, a lighter and a little bag of tobacco.  He unfurled it, and from within, found his even smaller bag of weed, a parting gift from a fleeting friend back in February.  He’d not had the opportunity to enjoy it, but here he found himself free of anyone to torment him about the dangers of such drugs, and he was free to do as he pleased.  But he needed to be sparing with it.  This was all he had for two weeks now, and for god knows how much longer.  These things weren’t easy to come by when you lived in the middle of nowhere, in communist Germany.  The Berliners didn’t tend to travel this far north unless they had an explicit reason for being here, so he’d have to be careful and ration his usage.  But he was on his way to  _His Island_.  He could treat himself to the first joint of the summer.  He rolled it carefully, spreading the tobacco across the papers, rolling himself a filter from the card the papers came in and ran it across his tongue, sealing it all together.  There was no breeze, but he cupped his hands around the flame from the lighter in force of habit.  He took the first deep inhale, holding it in his lungs for as long as he could, exhaling the smoke into the cold light of morning.  This was the life.  
  
He held the cigarette between his lips, trying not to get the smoke in his eyes as he rowed in the right direction, picking up speed.  He could see the dandelions and cornflowers blooming on the bank of  _His Island_ , drawing him closer to the natural beauty that he’d fallen in love with all those years before.  He moored his vessel, wading through the shallows to the bank and settled himself for a moment, taking in his new surroundings.  This was his home, his kingdom.  He took another deep inhale of the cigarette, watching the glow travel down towards his lips.  He felt the warmth getting closer, the burn imminent if he wasn’t careful.  Cutting it fine and taking a risk had always been second nature to him.   
  
He remembered back to one particular summer when he’d taught himself to spear fish (or at least what he thought was spear fishing; he’d seen it in some Werner Herzog documentary or something and had quite liked the idea of going back to basics).  He’d used the little pocket knife he’d stolen from his father’s desk drawer to sharpen a stick, and waded knee deep into the waters and waited. 

And waited.  
  
And waited.  
  
And the fish finally came, swimming unbothered around his legs.  He’d smiled to himself, steadying his core before plunging the stick with his whole bodily force into the water, feeling the tip of it hit something hard.  He’d cheered to himself, pleased with his catch, but upon pulling the stick from the water, he’d realised in the commotion that he’d fished himself nothing but a rock, and had snapped the end of his stick as he’d brought it down.   _I was lucky I didn’t pierce my own foot with that spear…_ he thought to himself, chuckling as he stabbed out the cigarette on the ground.  He produced a small plastic bag and placed the butt into it.  He didn’t want to litter, to spoil His Island.  He wanted to keep it clean of twentieth century mess.  He’d gotten a lot better at fishing since that summer from his childhood.  He’d gone home disappointed and full of splinters and researched the proper techniques, the ones used by the experts.  Now he could fish, but he still had issues with the splinters.  
  
First on the agenda was to build a fire, to search for fallen wood that was dry, and kindling for a good fire.  He’d build himself a little cover from some of the larger bits of wood he’d found, and the tarpaulin he kept in his backpack.  The fire would keep the mosquitos away, and the shelter would keep the rain off.  He’d brought a little sleeping bag, to keep himself warm is he needed, and a picnic blanket for whatever reason he saw fit.  He dragged the wood he’d found back to the spot he’d selected and began setting up the fire, carefully spinning the sticks carefully together to build up friction.  The kindling caught, and he quickly picked it up before placing it into the pile of leaves he’d set out in his little fire pit.  They caught, and he quickly piled on the wood to create a small camp fire.  He was ready for the two weeks to officially begin.  
  
The sun began to grow hotter as it rose in the sky, spreading light across the land and water before him.  He stripped his shirt from his chest and stretched in the warmth, revelling in the feel of the sunlight on his skin.  He looked around the floor for a moment and found a slightly larger, heavier stick that he’d brought with him and pulled his knife from its sheath. He began to whittle it, pointing the end, sharpening it as much as possible.  He knew this would be perfect for catching the fish in the water.  There’d be no fight, no accidents, he’d have a fresh fish dinner ready for himself by the afternoon.   
  
He striped himself of his clothes, save his underwear, and waded deep into the water, swimming out until he couldn’t reach the floor anymore.  He then rested himself, floating on his back, drifting in the water for a little while.  This was all he wanted, to be where he felt safest, most at home.  There were no thoughts in his head, no worries in his stomach, no weight in his chest; he felt as light as a feather and felt completely settled.  The cool water felt perfect against his skin, the sun shining down, forcing him to close his eyes.  His ears were dipped under the water, blocking out any sounds.  He felt nothing but peace.  He moved his arms about in the water around his waist, turning himself slowly in the water, guiding himself so he didn’t drift too far.  He’d swam this entire lake, on the surface and under.  He knew every inch of it, where the fish were mostly populated, where to find the best fruits around the shores and where to avoid (but that was mostly because of other people).  
  
He stayed a while in the water, before coming back to shore, adding another log to the fire.  He picked up his spear and waded back waist deep into the water, waiting patiently to catch himself a catfish.  They were always the tastiest.  Something disturbed him though.  
  
There was a quiet cracking sound, not the crackling of the fire; branches snapping under a heavy weight. He turned quickly, scanning the area for signs of life.  This was a dangerous spot to be found alone and armed only with a knife and those fallen branches weren’t broken by an animal.  He held his breath, searching for the source of the disturbance.  His kingdom was being invaded and he wasn’t best pleased.  This was his home,  _His Island._ How dare they come here and intrude.  
  
There was a flash of blonde hair piled on top of a head, tanned skin covering a broad chest and shoulders.  A shorter man stared back into his eyes.  He looked puzzled, and quite rightly so.  
  
“I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”  


* * *

He couldn't help but stare.  He'd never seen someone who looked like this boy before.  He was mostly shocked that another person had entered his most sacred of places.    
  
"It's okay..."  
  
"I'm Zven" He offered his hand to Till.  "I saw this island on the way up here from Wittenberge.  I thought it'd be a good place to escape the mad house."  
  
There was a long silence.  Till still didn't know what to say.  He just stared for a moment, his eyes flitting over the boy before him.  There was something strange about the way this boy looked.  He had these stunning blue eyes, heightened by the shock of blonde hair on top of his head.  He had high cheekbones, and his frame was thin, but his shoulders were wide.  He looked strong, but misguided; directionless.  His clothes were old, maybe hand-me-downs.  But Till could be wrong.  Fashion these days had always alluded him.  
  
"Sorry, what's your name?" Zven seemed to stumbled over his words, retracting his hand.  He was starting to get worried, Till could tell.    
  
"Oh, erm... I'm Till.  Pleased to meet you." His words almost fell out of his mouth.  He hadn't expected to have to use his voice for a while, so hearing it felt very strange.  "Sorry... I just didn't think anyone else would come out this far." He mirrored.  "I'm usually out here alone..."  
  
"You live here?"  
  
"Close by..."  
  
Till began to relax, his shoulders dropping slightly as he calmed down. The boy put down his backpack and took a seat on a large stone, his eyes never leaving Till.  "What're you escaping from?  You don't look like the type of person who's got anything to run from."  
  
Till laughed at that. This boy can't have been more than sixteen years old.  "I've taken a break from responsibility..."  
  
"You know, that's exactly what I'm doing.  Except I'm also getting away from home. I needed to get away from home for a while.  We've just moved and the house is smaller so it's real chaotic right now."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"I mean look..." Zven turned his backpack upside down and out fell several torn pieces of paper, and a roll of Sellotape.  "Tore up my poster because he doesn't like KISS.  I mean, who does that?  Why would he destroy something that wasn't his?  What did he think that was going to achieve?"  
  
"He?" Till asked, regretting his request for more information.    
  
"My step-father.  Not a fan of western music apparently. I don't know why?  You'd think all these old eastern men would be desperate to introduce a bit of culture into their lives! The east is so boring sometimes! It was so difficult to get this poster so now i'm going to have to put it all back together!"  
  
He was a child.  He must have been a good few years younger than Till.  On the one hand, it might be nice to have some company for the duration.  But on the other, he'd planned to just be alone.  He wasn't sure he wanted the responsibility of having another mouth to feed and arse to warm.  He could just turn it in now and head home, spend his holiday from work doing the handy work he'd been neglecting.  When he looked back, the boy had begun meticulously piecing the poster back together.  That was dedication.  There were so many pieces.  And boy, did Zven talk a lot.  If he opted to keep him here, that'd be the end of it.  No more natural silence for two weeks at least.  
  
Till finally sat himself down with his knife, beginning to gut the fish.  Within seconds, Zven's face turned sheet-white, and he turned away.  "Oh!  I'm sorry... Hold on..." a gentle laugh, "I forget that i'm the only one who's okay with that..." Till washed the fish out in the lake, leaving the entrails in the water.  Some other fish would eat them for certain.  
  
"No, it's fine.  I've just never been that close to so much blood.  And I always thought fish had blue blood..." He said, a small frown furrowed his brow.  "Does it turn red when oxygen mixes with it? or is it always red?  I've never seen blood inside the body, only once something has been cut so I've got no idea what's true and what isn't..."  
  
"Blood is red..." Till said plainly.    
  
"That's so interesting.  Someone at school once told me that blood is blue until oxygen hits it but then also they taught us that oxygen is carried in our blood around the body so surely it's red all the time but they told me with such conviction that I'm not sure who to believe..."   
  
He talked far too much.  This was a tirade on hearing; a never ending barrage of noise coming towards the ears at a rate of knots which the recipient wasn't quite prepared.  Till had never heard someone use so many words so carelessly before, not since he'd met Heiko in Berlin last year.  However, it didn't take long for it to become background noise, and for him to just carry on with what he was doing.  He set the fish on a stick in the ground, hanging over the fire, flames licking the skin.  There was nothing better than a fresh fish cooked on an open fire.  Simple, yet devine.  
  
"Till... Did you hear me?"  
  
"Sorry, what did you say?  
  
"Can I stay here with you?" he was surrounded by piles of paper, anchored down by small rocks.  "I don't want to go home, and I also don't like to be alone really... Can I stay with you?"  He looked so young, helpless.  It pulled on something within Till, some deep nurturing.    
  
"Sure, you hungry?"  


	3. Loomer

When the phone rang at six pm, he had been busy preparing himself a small bowl of potatoes and pork belly in the kitchen; Deep Purple broadcast over a short lived AM radio station.  He wanted to ignore it, let it ring out so he could be alone with his thoughts once more and eat in peace, but almost as soon as the ringing had stopped it started again.  He didn’t want his potatoes to over-boil, or his pork belly to overcook, and answering the phone may invite that possibility.  He didn’t really want to take that risk, but he also had to answer the phone.  Signs had been put up as the cat had been missing now for fifteen days, and it could be information that would make his mother feel more at ease about her beloved kitten (even though he was an old boy). Or it might have been someone with news of a job opening, something which he desperately wanted (he hated his current job as a labourer; he was worth more than that.) So once the second ringing began, he turned the flame down on the stove (which would ruin the crispiness of the fat on his pork belly strips), went to the living room and picked up the receiver.  
  
“There’s a party tonight nearby.  Some abandoned house up near the hills.  That band are gonna be there, you know, Feeling B.  Do you wanna come with me?”  
  
No salutation.  “No, Zven.  I’ve just made some dinner and I’d like to spend the evening reading.” Till explained, turning back to look at the food on the stove top.   
  
“One hour.  Come on.  It’s within walking distance of your house!  Come on, you old punk!  I know you want to come with me, eh? And I told you already to call me Richard.  Zven doesn’t suit me anymore.”  
  
“I think Scholle suits you much better, Zven”  
  
“Shut up and come to the party you old fart”  
  
“Listen, you just caught me in the middle of cooking din-…”  
  
“Are you making potatoes and pork again?  So predictable. Come on. Till. Come to the party.”  
  
“No.” With that, Till hung up.  He wasn’t in the mood for being hassled into going to a party for an hour.  Zven, who now insisted on being called by his middle name, Richard, had settled into Wendisch-Rambow and gotten himself a job gutting and prepping fish for sale in the fishmonger.  He’d earned the nickname from his speciality.  Scholle Krupse, the fish man.  
  
He imagined Richard staring at the phone in his hand after Till had hung up, no other outlet for those feelings.  Till remembered the food on the stove and went back to the kitchen, cursing as his pork belly had crossed over from crispy and had burnt.  _Fucking Zven_ he thought to himself.  He wasn’t happy about that.  He sighed, puling it all onto a plate anyway and sat down to eat.   
  
Resentment bubbled in the pit of his stomach as he pushed his food around his plate. _Predictable._ What did he know.  Zven had only been in Till’s life for about five weeks now, but he had fully embedded himself into Till’s day to day routine, that it felt odd not to hear from the boy at least once a day, if not slightly irritating.  Till had never been a talker, though.  He never wasted words, which was a good job because Zven wasted all of his words.  Sometimes, Till would could the seconds between each breath that Zven took, sometimes reaching forty five, maybe fifty seconds between each intake of breath as he spoke.  It was a marvel to behold how one person could exhale so many words at one time. Till sighed, looking at his meal, shaking his head.  It _was_ predictable, and boring.  Minimal flavour, and it wasn’t even a particularly healthy meal.   
  
The house was silent.  His mother had gone away on some conference and his sister had gone to stay with their father for the duration (his mother expecting Till to be out all the time so his sister was better off with someone who’d be home more often.  A joke, if anything.)  He looked around, the radio crackling away in the corner, the only noise breaking the silence, and he thought to himself that maybe he should go out.  What else was he going to do that evening?  Stay indoors and read a book?  Do some sit-ups?  Weave some baskets?  He laughed to himself and got to his feet, heading to the phone and dialled in the number.  
  
The line clicked to life.  
  
“I’ll see you at the end of the road in about an hour”  
  
“You’re coming!  I’m so exc-…”  
  
“Don’t be late.” Till hung up, looking back at the plate of food.  He wasn’t even hungry anymore. 

 

* * *

  
A chill hung heavy in the air, prickling the hairs on Till’s arms as he waited for Zven to arrive.  He was late, as predicted.  He could see in the distance the blonde hair bobbing down the road toward him, running hopefully, probably not.  Zven had a bouncy walk, a weirdly bouncy walk, almost like he was jumping instead of walking and it always made Till laugh a little to himself. Zven was the definition of light and breezy.  He seemed to carry no troubles on his shoulders, his head always held high and he almost always had some kind of smile plastered to his face.  

  
“Sorry I did run here but I underestimated how long it’d take me to walk this far…” Breathlessly, he patted Till on the shoulder and nodded in the direction they’d need to walk. “We can make it there in about half an hour so we should be good to walk.” He grinned, doubling over for a moment to catch his breath.  “Do you have any cigarettes?”  
  
“Not for you, Zven, you’re too young to smoke. A young boy like you shouldn’t be so out of breath from running up a short hill.”  
  
“Sorry, Dad.  And it’s _Richard._ Now shut up and give me a cigarette.” He lit it, taking a deep inhale of smoke in from the little stick before exhaling a large cloud of smoke into the air above him.  “Why does smoking make your breathing easier?  I don’t understand it? And why does it always make you dizzy? The first one of the day?”  
  
Till said nothing, began walking in the direction Zven had pointed, taking the matches from Zven to light his own cigarette.   
  
“I’m glad you decided to come with me.  That creepy old punk is gonna be there and he always gives me the creeps.”  
  
“Aljoscha is not a creep.  He’s a kind man who looks after those delinquents.  He’s getting them quite famous.”  
  
“Sure but you know, he’s always looking at me.  It’s weird.  I’m sure his eyes look in different directions. Plus, I’ve never even met them properly.  I’ve seen them live but I’ve never met them.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, he pulled his jacket closer around himself.  If he didn’t answer, surely Zven would take the hint and stop talking.  
  
“I like their band though. I like that kind of directionless noise.  But then I saw them at a beach so I’m not surprised if the sound got kinda lost in the wind, ya know? They were crazy though.  And that guitarist.  And that keyboard player, oh my god, Till, they’re incredible. What I’d give to have a band like that.  They’d be a little less directionless with their music though, not like now.  They are just making the most noise with no direction or purpose…”  
  
_A little like your own speech, then Zven_ Till thought to himself, shaking his head.  
  
“Can you write poetry?”  
  
“Poetry?” Till scrunched his face up, frowning in confusion down at the other.  Poetry? What did he mean _poetry_?  
  
“Yes, poetry. Like Hans Mayer or those other poets we did at school.”  
  
“I went to a sports school, we didn’t do poetry.” He was surprised they even bothered teaching them how to read.  If it had been up to the sports coaches he’d have been in the water all day, every day.  He’d have no need for Maths or Literature, or learning a foreign language.  He could just swim and be good at that.  What a shame about the nudie magazines, eh?  
  
“Can you write poetry or not?” he dragged Till out of the nostalgia.  
  
“I guess I can write a little bit.  My father is a writer so I might be able to.  Why?”  
  
“Good, okay because I want to start a band soon and I need someone who can write songs better than I can.  Songs are just poetry with music, right?  Well then we can use your poems to make them into songs.” Zven started into a tirade on his dreams of starting a band.  “I don’t know what we can be called though.  It won’t be as cool as Feeling B because that’s peak cool names for bands so I’m not su-…”  
  
“Can you play any instruments, Zven?” Till asked plainly.  
  
“No, and its Richard. But what punk can?  We’ve all see the sex pistols, right?”  
  
He was right.  Sid Vicious couldn’t play bass and Johnny Rotten couldn’t sing, and in his opinion he also wasn’t a very good lyricist, so it couldn’t be that difficult to get a band started up.  But was this really a venture that Till wanted to delve himself into right now?  He was struggling with finding suitable work for himself, and he didn’t want to waste his time on such a stupid pastime.  He’d have to wait and see how he felt.   
  
As they walked, Zven kept talking, rabbiting on about something or other; why the sky was the colour it was, or why the grass grew in green or what it was that made clocks tick, like really how do the mechanics of a clock _really_ work.  Apparently these things made Zven very suspicious that there was some great conspiracy theory at work and he was determined to discover what it all meant.  
  
But his chat was cut short.  The noise was growing louder as they approached the house and they could hear the familiar screeches of a certain old man rocker.   
  
“I didn’t know they were performing…I knew they'd be here but I didn't know they were performing” Zven added, as if that had been a reason not to go to this party.  “Will you introduce me to them?  I really want to meet them.”  
  
“Sure.”

* * *

  
As they approached the house, Till could feel Zven’s confidence waning.  He’d been to see Feeling B at an actual concert before, but had never been to one of these parties.  He didn’t think Zven was missing much.  He felt almost as if this was just a big excuse to get drunk and gyrate against one another to Aljoscha’s terrible droning and Heiko’s screeching guitar.  Till enjoyed the company of Christian though; a man who, like himself, never wasted his words, was incredibly intelligent and a very talented pianist.  Why on earth would he want to be in this rag-tag band anyway?  He observed Zven for a moment, lighting up one more cigarette to make excuse for his falling behind a little.  His shoulders were tense, his head low, he could see that Zven felt awkward and nervous by his posture.  The tell-tale signs of an anxious man.  He understood that anxiety.  Being in your middle teens, thinking you know yourself until you’re presented with the facts that you really don’t.  Being surrounded by people who have established who they are and what they stand for; it quakes your very foundations.  All young people experience it, and tonight would be no different for Zven.  He was about to have an earth shattering experience when he met his punk idols.  
  
Swaths of people heaved back and forth as they entered the party together.  Zven took a strong grip to Till’s wrists so as not to lose the only person he really knew so quickly.  For someone with so much confidence outwardly, Zven was a nervous friend; this energy of excitement began to break and out poured nerves and anxiety on a level which Till had only ever experienced in solitude.  Turning to look directly at Zven, he said “I’ll go get us a couple of beers, come with me.  We might find them in the midst of all this…” he made sure Zven’s grip was tight and pulled him through the packed crowd toward the kitchen.  This was their usual spot.  Aljoscha loved the crowd that gathered in the kitchen and Christian liked the exploration of the fridge.  Heiko might be chatting with some friends on a couch, or curled up somewhere with his girlfriend.  
  
“Okay, great.  And if we can’t, can we just go back outside please?  This is very hot in here.”  
  
It was easy to forget that Zven was no more than sixteen or seventeen.  He was young, but carried himself like a much older man; except now here he was, anxious of the crowd surrounding him. A sea of strangers all leering at the young boy before them. But as they turned into the kitchen, his suspicions had been proven!  “There he is!  The great Aljoscha.” Till spoke into Zven’s ear over the noisy crowd.   
  
Aljoscha was holding court, telling some story that was, most likely, highly embellished and far from the truth, but he was a great story teller nonetheless. The man had the attention of some pretty girls and some hangers-on, and he sat on the kitchen counter top so he was higher than the rest, laughing and patting people on the shoulders as the punchlines to the jokes landed.  Till had heard these stories before, all of them, in all their varying forms and still wasn’t entirely sure of the actual truth; Heiko and Christian weren’t the most giving of information, and rightly so.  The East was no place for loose lips.  But Aljoscha had an attitude that he was above all that; above the east and west, above even the Cold War itself.  He was Swiss, and they were neutral.  He was free to cross into West Berlin when he pleased (though they were sure he was aware of the great file that the Stazi had on him, he was at the centre of a troublesome group after all.)  
  
“And then all of a sudden the waves are coming up and we’re sinking into the beach!  Our equipment is sinking into the sand and I look to Heiko, and he to me and we both just…” And then he shrugged his shoulders, “And carried on playing!  It was gre-…”  
  
“Aljoscha!” Till called, and he felt Zven’s grip tighten on his wrist, knowing the old man would immediately come over.   
  
“No, not him first he’s so strange.”  
  
“Be nice.” Till instructed, smiling and shaking hands with the older man.  “Aljoscha, I want you to meet Zven.  He’s moved here recently and is a big fan of Feeling B” Aljoscha planted a large, wet kiss on Till's cheek, holding his face in his hands to admire him for a moment as Till spoke.    
  
He witnessed all the colour drain from Zven’s face.  Mortified, he took the hand of the older man.  Till couldn’t help but laugh.  Had he said the wrong thing?  
  
“It’s so nice to meet you Zven!  I’ve definitely seen you at our concerts before!” Aljoscha shook his hand, patting him on the shoulder.  “It’s always nice to meet new faces on the scene!  Where are you from originally?”  
  
“Wittenberge.  And its Richard, please.  Call me Richard.” If looks could kill, Till would have been stone dead.  
  
“Ahh!” Aljoscha clapped his hand to his chest.  “Wittenberge!  A beautiful city!  Some wonderful architecture there that wasn’t bombed by the British, eh?” He laughed, nudging Zven's arm with his elbow.  “You play any instruments, Richard?  You want to join us for a jam session later?  Christian couldn’t make it this evening, so we’re short a keyboardist!”  
  
“I can’t play, really.  But thank you for offering.”  
  
“Well maybe next time!” Aljoscha said curtly, “I must go, someone over there needs me!” he pointed in a direction that was vague and disappeared into the crowd.  
  
“I’m not keen on him either. He's a good man but he is quite strange.” Till explained, “But let’s go and find Heiko.”  
  
“Please stop calling me Zven.  I hate it, Richard is my middle name, please. Till.”  
  
Till laughed to himself, gripped Zven’s wrist and headed into the crowd again, allowing it to carry them into the next room.  “Don’t laugh.  It’s Richard and I will kick you if you carry on.” A frown furrowed his brow.   
  
“But I like Zven. It suits you.”  
  
“But I don’t like it so can you just cool it with the wrong name and call me Richard.  Please?”  
  
“Heiko!” Till grinned, hugging a smaller man, with a strange blonde haircut and terrible clothes.  “How have you been?  Nikki!  It’s so good to see you!” Till hugged the equally small woman who held hands with Heiko.  “Wow, you both look well! Anyway, I want you to meet someone!  This is Scholle.”  
  
Zven smacked his forehead, scowling at Till.  
  
“Its Richard, please. It’s so nice to meet you!”  
  
“He’s just moved here, and has been annoying me ever since so I’m coming to introduce him to you!  I’ll be right back!” Till grinned, sinking back into the crowd, alone, to the kitchen for beer. Or wine. Vodka?  Anything with an alcohol content.  While he might be putting on a brave face, Till hated these kind of things. He disliked parties, social gatherings, local-band concerts, large groups of people and children.  This party seemed to have all of those things, packed into a space that was far too small.  Someone had put some beers in the fridge, and he was so thankful for that, downing a large amount of it on the spot.   
  
He turned and looked back at the younger man, watching Heiko draw him into conversation.  If there was someone tolerant enough to listen to all of Zven’s noise, it was Heiko.  Heiko was a good talker, as much as the next person.  He was slightly older than Zven, in the middle of them.  He was a lot more grown up than a lot of the folk at the party, having spent a little time dealing with Stasi harassment and what-not.  Being so closely affiliated with the likes of Aljoscha and the East German Punk scene was not all swings and roundabouts.  It was a strong political decision one had to make, and it put oneself in a very difficult position, as you stood for a lot of things that the state didn’t agree with.  And for Heiko, an almost-nineteen-year-old from Berlin, to take that stance and not give a shit about the establishment’s thoughts on that.  Well, he was a pretty well regarded young man in this scene.  
  
Zven would fit right in with these people, Till was certain of that.  He had all the personality characteristics that these people shared; a charmer, easy going, a good story teller.  They’d take him in and nurture any talent for music he might show, and turn him into something greater than he would have imagined. He suddenly felt an arm snake around his shoulders; the same clammy presence he’d become used to at these parties.   
  
“Does your little friend play any instruments?” Aljoscha asked, hanging from Till for a moment as someone pushed past them.   
  
“Not that he’s told me, no. Why?”   
  
“Hmm, I’m not sure how I feel about him yet. I don’t know that I trust him.”  
  
“He’s just a kid, Josh. Give him time.  He’ll grow into himself.”  
  
“I’d keep my eye on that one, Till, if I were you.  I can see trouble a mile away and that boy is trouble.”  
  
With that, the old punk left him alone, only a slight damp patch on his shoulder where Aljoscha’s armpit had pressed against him.  Something rang clear in those words Aljoscha had spoken and it shook something within Till for a moment.  He’d been growing rather fond of Zven’s company, though also slightly irritated by its consistently loud presence.  Was there something more sinister waiting for him?  He felt a little unnerved by Aljoscha’s statement, and finished the warming bottle of beer in his hand.  He fished out another four bottles before heading back to Heiko, Zven and Nikki. 

* * *

  
A calmness had descended as the party drew to an end.  There was the inevitable crowd who never left, those for which the party never ended, but he sat outside in the summers-end air, watching the moon reflect off the near-by lake.  This was his favourite part of the night.  Till loved the time of night when it was late, not many were awake and there were no expectations.  You could relax, finally and truly relax.  No one expected anything of you, and you had no expectations of yourself at this time.  He sat on the porch step and lit himself a cigarette.  He couldn’t explain it, but he loved smoking more than anything.  He knew it wasn’t good for you, otherwise they wouldn’t have frowned upon it so heavily at his school.  But he loved it, nonetheless. He held the smoke in his lungs for a minute, closing his eyes to feel the slight dizziness set in before exhaling.  He felt so calm and collected.  There was nothing that could break his consciousne-…  
  
“Can I join you?” Came the voice from behind, half shrouded in the darkness of the house.  The lights had been turned off to signal to everyone that it was time to leave, and yet there was still a healthy crowd inside to keep the party going.   
  
Zven sat down, picked up the pack of cigarettes and lit himself one, following the same procedure Till had not two minutes ago performed.  He looked so young in this moonlight, and yet, looked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was strange to see him so depressed, someone usually so uplifting. He was worrying over something.  
  
“Did you enjoy the party?” He asked, looking over Zven for a moment, before focusing his attention back out over the lake.  
  
“Why won’t you call me Richard?” a small frown pulled Zven’s brows together.  A little wrinkle appeared on the bridge of his nose, like some sort of pissed off Toddler.   
  
“I’m only messing with you, I promise I’ll call you Richard, I swear.” Till promised, hand on heart.  
  
“You really embarrassed me in front of Paul –“  
  
“Paul?”  
  
“Yeah, he told me his name is now Paul.  He wants to distance himself from something or other? I don’t know, I can’t remember.” There was a hiccup, a small crackle of a cigarette being inhaled and then a deep, throaty cough.   
  
“How much have you had to drink tonight?”  
  
“A bit.  Paul kept a healthy supply coming to us so a fair amount.” Another hiccup, followed by a burp.  
  
“How’re you getting home?”  
  
“Can I stay with you? Please?”  
  
A sigh, “Fine, the couch it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm aware that this isn't the most _accurate_ description of them all meeting one another. I am embellishing, this is fiction. Please love it. Comments and Criticism is always welcomed  <3


	4. When You Sleep

‘ _I am damned_ …’ thought Till in a sudden moment of self-awareness, something which mostly hits those who are about to die. His eyes cast over her soft skin, inch by inch revealed as she strips off her dress and leaves nothing to the imagination. He feels in the pit of his stomach that he has made a grave mistake, but this realisation soon passes in a dreadful heartbeat, and is gone. He was left in the moment; his shirt on the floor, his pants unzipped, his eyes trailing over her gentle curves. He wanted so badly to put his hands on her hips, to bring her to him, to worship her in every way possible.    
  
_Maria._  
  
She was his first love, his only love. Their eyes had met across the living room of a stranger’s house some time ago, she was buried amongst a group of friends, he was half listening to Paul, not listening to Richard. He was transfixed.  
  
“What’s wrong?” asked Maria, the self-doubt suddenly trickling through her voice. Maybe his face wasn’t telling the same feelings that were running through his mind.    
  
“Nothing, nothing… Come here.” He said softly, offering his hand out to her. He’d thought of this moment for a long time. The two of them had been seeing each other for a few months now, and she had agreed to come home with him, to stay the night, for this to happen. They had slept with each other before, in the most innocent sense. He thought to her lying in his arms, his left arm going dead, but he didn’t care. He just watched her sleep, feeling the same swell of emotions that he felt now, looking up at her. He wondered what she thought then, looking down on him as he trailed his hands over her hips, her sides, up the smooth skin of her back. Was she thinking about his touch? Was she thinking about something else entirely? Another man? Some fantasy? Was this what he should really be thinking about at this moment in time? _Focus! Focus!_  
  
“Do you love me, Till?” She asked, gently running her fingers through his hair.  
“You know I do.”  
“Do you swear on your life?”  
“Upon Christ and all his saints, right down to your little shoes, baby”  
  
She kissed him then, and he seems to forget everything.  


* * *

  
“Where were you the other night?” asked Richard, feeding the steering wheel through his hands.    
“I was out.” replied Till.  
“With Maria…?” he sung, the wink would have had more effect if he’d been looking at Till.   
“Don’t take your eyes off the road.”

  
They pulled out into the traffic then, only a few cars on the road. Richard had convinced Till to teach him to drive, and Till had never felt so nervous.  
  
“Tell me,” Richard began. “If you discovered that Maria turned out to have six fingers on each hand, what would you do?”   
Till frowned, turning slowly to look at Richard, taking his eyes off the road for a moment.  “What the fuck?”  
“What would you do?”  
“Richard…” He stopped, trying to process the question he’d just been asked.  “What?”  
“If she had six fingers and you’d just not noticed, but now you’ve seen them and she has six fingers on each hand… what would you do?”  
“I don’t know…”  
“Sell her to the circus?” Richard turned to look at Till then, “I mean that’s circus material, right?”  
“EYES ON THE ROAD.” Till reached across the seat and pushed Richard’s face back towards the road.  “Please don’t take your eyes off the road.  I don’t want to crash and I also don’t want you to break my car.”  
“I’d definitely sell her to the circus. Think of the profit.  Just to look at her weird extra finger.”  
“Are you asking me because you’ve got a girlfriend who has an extra finger, Richard?”

  
There was silence then.  A small smile pulled at Richard’s lips then, and Till began to laugh.  “I mean… It’s not a full finger but she does have a small protrusion on the outside of her hand, by her little finger.”   
  
They laughed, and Richard turned the car into a small street.  “You know I can drive, right?” Richard said, “I just need to make sure I’m driving well enough to make it official with a licence and all that.”   
“Shut up and turn the corner up here on the right…” Till shook his head in disapproval.  “I have to be home soon, I’m going out this evening.” Said Till, feeling in his pockets for his keys then.    
  
Richard looked over, changing gear and let out a sigh.  
  
“Seeing Maria?” Said Richard.  
“Yeah, we’ve got tickets to a thing…”  
“Oh yeah, what thing is that?”  
“Just… A thing. Why? Do you want to come?”  
“No, no… I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel or anything…” He was frowning now, and he took the next corner a little too sharply as they turned into the top of Till’s road.  
  
“You wouldn’t be a third wheel, Richard… She’s your friend too.”  
  
The car stopped abruptly outside Till’s house. Richard got out of the car and slammed the door closed.   
  
“We were supposed to hang out this evening Till, in case you’d forgotten.” He turned and walked back up the road to go home.  
  
Till had no idea what to say to correct this situation.  
  
He felt as though a weight was crushing down on his back, crippling him, choking the air from his lungs. I wish I could tell you that after a long and happy life together, they both passed peacefully, but that is not the case. That their lives were always meant to be filled to the brim with happiness, that wasn’t meant to be.  


* * *

  
So many words just lose their meaning when they leave the mouth; lose their courage and wander aimlessly through the world until they are swept into the gutter. He often wondered who the last person to see him alive might be. If he’d put a bet on it, it would be someone so insignificant to his life, like a take-away driver or a neighbour he saw once in a blue moon. It wouldn’t be who he’d want it to be, to give his last words to so that they might live on.  It wouldn’t be Richard, or Paul, or Maria. It wouldn’t even be his mother, who’d immortalise his thoughts and feelings somehow. For Till, silence often meant more than the noises people made. A comfortable silence was better than a thousand uncomfortable words to fill the void. Richard filled every void with as much noise as he could make, blowing hot air out constantly in a stream of words which should have been internalised from the start, but it was a quality that Till liked about Richard; his unashamed talking was a sound which followed Till into his dreams at night. An interesting topic of conversation was rarely on hand but there was always something to talk about.    
  
But Maria, now she was something else entirely. The pair could sit in utter silence for hours, just occupying a space together, no words ever exchanged between them, and it was entirely comfortable. But he never knew how she felt, deep down. She had built a wall around herself, for privacy and protection, five feet thick and twelve feet tall, impenetrable. Till would never really know what she was thinking, or feeling. She was silent in all respects, and she could be cold, an icy breeze on his emotions. He couldn’t explain why he had fallen in love with her, of all the women he’d met in his lifetime thus far. She wasn’t warm, she was kind but her heart wasn’t always in it, she wasn’t welcoming but she was beautiful. He couldn’t explain why he’d been allowed into her life, and no one else.  But he didn’t really know all that much about her, she was still so allusive.  
  
His thoughts came back to Richard, who wasn’t so much a natural friendship that’d formed over years, but more a friendship by brute force, a friend who was open and warm and welcoming; a friend who’d tell you everything and nothing all at once; a friend who’d give you the shirt off their back if you needed it; a friend who left you feeling safe, not a little sad and empty. A pang of anxiety waved its way through his stomach to the back of his head as he thought of his earlier conversation with Richard.  He’d easily get his licence, and Till hadn’t needed to really teach him how to drive, and it occurred all of a sudden that maybe Richard was coming up with ways to spend time with him.  Till could have smacked himself in the face.    
  
He looked around at the room for a second before sitting up on the edge of his bed.  He had to get ready to leave.  Maria would be waiting.  Decisions needed to be made quickly.    


* * *

  
He’d been there for at least twenty minutes, alone, when a reptilian man with pointed teeth, the bright spot of his scalp blinking through his thinning hair, stroked the hand of the woman sitting opposite him. Till couldn’t take his eyes off of the man in question, or the woman he was with. He was in his early-sixties, he had to be, and she in her early forties.  He met Till’s gaze with a leer of recognition which sent a nasty shiver down his spine.  The woman looks at Till, and Till checked her expression free eyes, cold beneath over-plucked brows and heavy Cyndi Lauper-esque makeup.  She might have hoped it made her a younger looking woman, but the lines around her eyes and mouth gave away an age that may not have been entirely accurate. He takes in her appearance, deeply tanned skin, peroxide hair, over-drawn lips, the cleavage which hung out over her shirt, pushed too high, too short skirt, and felt a familiar sickness creeping up the back of his throat.  The two were horrid, and he understood the woman’s game.    
  
Why had Maria chosen to meet him here?  
  
He looks back at the newspaper he’d picked up on the way into the café, eyeing the headline before him. There’d been a murder close by quite recently and it was all the paper could do but to alert people and give as many grizzly details as they could.    
  
“He’s still on the loose?” His thoughts were interrupted. Eyes meeting hers, the waitress tapped the small pad in her hand with the pen impatiently.    
“He’s still on the loose.” Till repeated, folding the paper over, resting his arms on it. She continued to tap her pen on the pad, a small frown furrowing her brow.    
“Do you want something?”  
“Oh, just a coffee please. No milk.” He nodded. She didn’t write it down, but turned and wandered away from him towards the coffee bar.  He goes back to reading the paper, trying to read his way through the article on the murderer but finds himself unable to do so, the words not quite aligning right, reordering themselves.    
  
She was back, holding a coffee in one hand, and a pot of sugar in the other. She carefully placed it on the table in front of him.  She wore a purple gingham uniform, a size too small for her, with a white collar and cuffs, her hair raked back too tight into a ponytail, the stress on her temples evident already, and she wore a nametag that read ‘Katja’.  
  
“Danke.” He said quietly, taking two packets of sugar from the pot to empty into his cup.  
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, and he began picking up on her accent.  
“No. Danke. If you don’t mind me asking, are you Russian?” he asked. She smiled, her body language changing then, becoming more open.   
“Half.  My father is Russian, has moved us all here for work.”  
“Oh, I caught your accent.” He explained, the muscles in his face pulling at the corner of his lips.  “It’s a pretty name, Katja”  
“Thank you, my mother called me that.”  
  
He took a sip of the coffee in front of him. It was warm, strong and exactly what he needed on this cold morning.    
  
“You know, I’ll have an egg on some toast please.” He nodded to her, wrapping his hands around the cup. She left him again, going to call in the order. Sunlight streamed in through a nearby window, and a shaft of pale yellow light crept up the inside of the waitress’ leg where she stood.  He looked back down at his cup, trying not to pay too much attention to this woman, when he girlfriend was coming to meet him soon. But this waitress was a beautiful girl, and her heavy, dark eye makeup made him think of Souxsie Sioux, so he thought he’d go for it.    
  
She placed a plate down in front of him; two small fried eggs on top of a piece of cremated toast.    
  
“Sorry…” a laughing apology at the state of the breakfast plate.  
“It’s okay, at least the coffee’s good.” He laughed, smashing up the runny yokes into the rest of the egg.  “Listen, my friend is in a band, and they’re playing in a couple of days down the road.  You should come with some friends.”  
“Oh.  I have a boyfriend.” She took a small step back and her body language closed up once again.    
“No, I have a girlfriend, she’s meant to be coming to meet me here. You just look the type who’d enjoy their music. Come along!” producing a flyer from a pocket, Paul had shoved it in there earlier in the week.   
“Feeling B? I think I’ve heard of them! I might see you there!” a grin, flyer pushed into the front pocket of her apron, she walked away.    
  
He realised then that he’d been in the café for over an hour, and he’d not given the waitress his name.  Maria wasn’t coming.  
  


* * *

 

It was early evening and pissing rain, and as he reached the crest of the hill, he came to her house.  All of the lights were on, and he prayed she was home alone.  Her father wasn’t too keen on Till, and he didn’t want to cross paths with him right now.    
  
She had called, asking him to come over as soon as he could.  She wouldn’t explain why, which made the thought of his trip to her all the more exciting.  Since that first night they’d spent together, they’d been inseparable for almost six months.  He still felt that giddy feeling in his stomach whenever he saw her, still got that uncomfortable swash of emotions in the cradle of his hips when she touched him, still felt the same burning love for her that he’d felt the minute he put his eyes on her.    
  
He knocked on the door, standing back to straighten his jacket, running a cool hand through his hair.  He smiled as she opened the door, leaning in to kiss her, but she turned her head, his kiss landing on her cheek. _Oh no.  
  
“_ Come in.” Said Maria a little too coolly for his liking.    
  
His eyes glanced around the place for a moment, all too silent, no sound of another person being present.  _Thanks God._  
  
“Sit.” She said, patting the seat next to her gently.  She hadn’t looked at him yet, and she was avoiding his eyes.  She had been crying, and there was a little pull at his chest.  He had yet to see any emotion like this from her, and he wasn’t all that good at processing feelings like this in himself.  He certainly wasn’t very good at coaching other people through them.    
  
“I’m scared, Till.” Said Maria  
“Why’re you scared?  You’ve got no reason to be scared.” He took her hand in his, turning to face her fully, watching her profile.    
“Everything, I’m scared of everything.” She gulped, stifling a little sob that broke the surface.    
“Don’t talk like that.  You know that gets you nowhere.  What’s got you in this state?” asked Till, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand.    
“Do you love me, Till?” she asked.  
“Of course I do, you know I do.”  
“I’m pregnant, Till. Do you still love me now?”  
  
A menagerie of thoughts passed through his mind at the same time.  It was all very sudden.  Her statement had been blunt, and it had taken a hot minute for it to process fully in his mind.  No words had come out of his mouth for some time and he had become aware that she was staring at him somewhat anxiously.    
  
“I…”  
“Forget it. We’ll just have to see if there’s something we can do.  I was silly to think this would be okay.”  
“No, no…” He said softly, “I’m going to be a dad?” asked Till, a smile creeping across his face.  “We’re going to have a baby?” a laugh escaped him then, and he pulled her into his arms.  “Maria I am so happy.”  
  
And that was the last time he felt that way in his time with the love of his life.


End file.
